An Odd Assortment of Items
by Sacred Wishes
Summary: Blaise buys many odd items from a shop in Hogsmeade. Little does he know his purchase would bring about chaos and perhaps love among his friends soon. Pairings undecided, but probably HGDM : PLEASE R&R! Standard disclaimers apply. Rated T to be safe.
1. Hogsmeade and Things

**A/N: This would count as my second fic, but the first one didn't count cos I kinda abandoned it. ((: PLEASE REVIEW!!!**

Professor Mcgonagall strode into the Great Hall, where a throng of chattering fifth-years were milling about, waiting for her.The rim of her spectacles reflected the bright sunlight that shone from the Enchanted Ceiling above. As she walked, the fifth-years were immediately silenced as the hook-nosed prim woman strode closer, her green tartan robes swishing rhythmically behind her.

"Ahh. I see most of you have gathered already, on time. Well then!" the Professor smiled. Her eyes glanced once around the room, checking that there were no unauthorized people; then, with a sweep of her hand, the doors leading to Hogsmeade were opened with a large 'clang'.

"Enjoy yourselves!" called the Professor over her shoulder as the students rushed outside, tasting the cool winter air on their tongues.

Among the crowd were the Slytherin trio - Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. Draco swept a hand back against his blond, gelled hair and announced, "I need to buy myself a couple of new quills, the old ones were getting a bit blunt. I'll see you two around!" With that he disappeared, walking briskly down the street, flanked by his usual two dumb bodyguards - Crabbe and Goyle - who had hung at the back just now. Blaise was about to tell Draco that the quill shop was not in that direction, when Pansy - who usually followed Blaise - declared she had arranged a rendezvous with a couple of the other Slytherin girls at the Three Broomsticks, and so had to hurry off.

Quirking a single eyebrow at the sudden attempt at disappearance of his two friends, he grumbled slightly, then let Pansy go. She traipsed off, in the same direction as Draco, and soon vanished around the corner - without so much as a wave goodbye. Well he could always do with new friends, and there were plenty of Slytherins about who would gladly be his companion for the day. He was, after all, Blaise Zabini, second-most handsome Slytherin, and of course, the most sought-after possession.

But he was not for the taking, and didn't really feel like hanging around with the bunch of morons who were currently trying to get him to join their slobby clique. He was way to classy for that type. Why the Sorting Hat even considered them part of Slytherin was a mystery to him.

_They're probably trying to get back at me for the time I switched both of their pumpkin juices for Hiccuping Potion_, Blaise thought, chuckling at the memory of both of them hiccuping their way through death threats, and trying to cast a charm heal themselves, but ended up making themselves look like they've spilled diluted Bobotuber pus over themselves. _Ah well. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth - that's the way it works._ He turned at another corner down to High Street, planning to go to Zonko's, and most likely meeting Theodore Nott there, whom he decided to walk through Hogsmeade with. As the majority of the Hogwarts trickster population rushed into Zonko's, he followed, and purchased some stuff - including a vial of Poop Powder, and a Tickling Quill - just in case Draco and Pansy got more than a little something up their sleeves.

Biding a goodbye to Malcolm Baddock whom he bumped into (well more like was squeezed into - Zonko's was packed like a goblins in a gold mine), he hid his purchases in the folds of his cloak, then slinked out again, having not found Nott in Zonko's. He looked up and down the street, scanning Hogsmeade for any sign of his black-haired friend.

He did not see Theodore anywhere in the crowded, dirty streets, but he did catch a glimpse of a unfamiliar shop with a mushroom cap for a roof, right on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. It hovered in view for a moment before a large hag walked right across his line of vision, guzzling a bottle of Firewhisky.

_There's an adventure_, Blaise thought to himself. He was getting rather bored of seeing the same Hogsmeade skyline, and all the stuff here were stuff that he could order with a catalogue, an owl, and money - all of which he had. Even the occasional sight of a group of banshees in the corner of the Hog's Head didn't even surprise him anymore. He was a Zabini, and he had seen worse things than that. He decided in that minute to go and check out what that mysterious shop was. He had already explored the whole of Hogsmeade - even the Shrieking Shack - and considered himself an expert on that area. He'd even found an entrance from Hogwarts into Honeydukes, something which he thought only he knew - although, of course, the Weasely twins are by far better than him. Then again, Blaise didn't have an inkling that something like the Marauder's Map existed.

Blaise walked swiftly down the street, Slytherin cloak swishing behind him, heading towards the direction where he thought. Pushing past a few Ravenclaws on the way, he finally turned a corner and reached the street where the shop was.

The street was deserted.

There was along the one short dusty stretch of road, then the shop at the end - and nobody else. Feeling a tad bemused, Blaise stepped forward, and crossed the threshold of the equally deserted shop, and gazed around.

It was a dim-lit place with various goods littered all over the place, and no shelves at all - everything was strewn all over the floor, or hanging on the wall, or displayed on the counter. A colony of spiders stared at him from the corner; there was a weird glowing halo perched on top of a mannequin's head. As he stepped nearer, Blaise saw a funny looking white-feathered quill that had a red tip, displayed on the counter inside a glass box that had mirrors as three of the walls and a transparent front wall. He wondered which bird it came from. He leaned closer. It seemed to be glittering... Squeaky bats were staring at him from where they hung on the wall, and the small circular rug underneath him - right in front of the counter - suddenly lifted its edges. Blaise quickly stepped off the rug. There was a neat stack of books, too, and a couple of broomsticks with odd runes on them leaning against the wall, but Blaise suddenly felt that he wanted to get out of here. He made a beeline for the doorway when -

"Miaow," purred a cat as it jumped out in front of his face, and padded softly to him, scratching at the hem of his cloak. Blaise realised, with a small gasp, that the cat had been lying on the ceiling - upside down! He shuddered. _This place was odd... _He tried to shake off the cat, but it just wouldn't let go. It was then that the shopkeeper hobbled in from the door behind the counter.

"Lad, wanna buy something?" he rasped, gray eyes fixed on Blaise's back with intensely. Blaise froze, then turned around with a forced smile plastered on his face.

"No thanks, sir, I was just, uh, checking this place out, you know." he stuttered. Mentally, he chided himself, _Since when did a lame old man make you stutter? Get your nerve together! _"Really, sir, I have to be going now."

"But you are interested, aren't you? I sell things that you have never seen, or dreamed, before. Things that you would desire if you knew what powers they had." The shopkeeper's voice dropped to a low, husky pitch. "I know your heart, boy. Look around and buy what you would like." He swept a vague hand over the shop.

Blaise was almost captivated by the shopkeeper. He was a stooped, hooded man; his hood covered most of his old, wrinkle-lined face, but two bright ruby eyes shone out of it, almost like a beacon in the darkness. And as the man swept his hand, Blaise could see a wrinkled claw portruding out from under the baggy sleeve of the robe - then it disappeared again. The man grinned toothily at Blaise.

Blaise tried to hide his eagerness as he walked around the shop with a slow, reluctant pace. He approached hungrily towards a broom. He was meaning to switch it with Potter's Firebolt, maybe - he doubted that any of the brooms here fly faster than a Firebolt - but as he grabbed the handle of the broom, he noticed a little tag on it.

"**This broom would allow the flyer to become invisible for any amount of time,**" Blaise read the spidery handwriting, his eyes growing wider with each word. _This must cost a fortune!_ He turned the tag around, but there was no price on it.

"That would be ten Galleons, lad," whispered a hoarse voice near his ear. Blaise nearly jumped out of his skin. Whirling around, he saw the creepy shopkeeper standing behind him, grinning at him again. Blaise forced his heart to stop pumping so hard and smiled forcefully back at the man. "That's cheap," he commented dryly, still wondering how the shopkeeper had limped towards him without making a sound that Blaise's sharp ears could pick up. He tucked the broom under his arm, thinking, _I bet a million Galleons, old man, that this broom is phony._

However, now Blaise's interest was really aroused. He scanned the room a second time, his eyes lingering various objects of curiosity. There was a glove draped rather unceremoniously over the books. _Don't tell me that a simple, Muggle's gardening glove could also have some magic power,_ Blaise thought, walking towards it, occasionally looking over his shoulder to check that the freaky shopkeeper was back at the counter already. As he drew near he noticed something different about the glove.

The glove's opening reached up to around his elbow, and had some weird runes around the fingers. The tag read, "**This glove fits any hand like a second skin. It allows the wearer to phase through walls, or any solid object - right up to the elbow. It only can be pulled off by the wearer itself.**" _Most queer, indeed. I'm starting to think that this shop is either crackpot, or a Dark Arts shop... _

"That would be seven Galleons, young man," murmured the shopkeeper again, who had silently sidled up to where Blaise was standing. His ale breath tickled the hairs on Blaise's neck, and goosebumps rose all over him as he jumped sideways.

"Um. Right." he stammered, then accidentally knocked a pouch off the hook where it was hanging on the wall while he raised a hand to run his fingers through his hair - a gesture of his whenever he's nervous. "Oh - I'm sorry," he said, bending to pick up the furry drawstring pouch. He thought that the fur was a weird velvety kind of fur which he had never felt before - which was odd, as his dad was a enthusiastic hunter who brought all sorts of furry biting creatures from the wild, and also had a large collection of furs all around the house - carpets, tapestries, clothes - many of these were made from fur. But this one felt weird, even alive, under Blaise's touch. He shuddered, then read the tag: "**You can steal anything your heart desires from this pouch. Just concentrate on it as you draw your item out.**" S_teal? How do you steal something from a pouch?_ Blaise thought, rather confused.

This time, though, he was well aware of the shopkeeper coming up behind him and breathing down his neck, "That would cost you fifteen Galleons."

By now Blaise arms were full of the broomstick, the glove and the pouch. Quite an odd assortment of items.

The shopkeeper grabbed his arm suddenly, dragging him to a desolate corner. "I have a feeling you would like to look at this. It's a cheap nine Galleons," rasped the man, his claws digging into Blaise's tanned skin. The shopkeeper bent down and picked something up, then shoved it into Blaise's pile of goods. It appeared to be a flute, cut out from some sort of coarse white and hard material. Blaise angled his head to read what the tag said. "**Anyone who can hear the curse of this beautiful music would pick up their legs and run - in a direction which they cannot control.**" A smirk spread across Blaise's face. He'd be sure to use this flute on his dormitory mates - especially Draco.

"What do these do?" said Blaise as he pointed at a couple of eyeballs in a jar, each with wildly colorful irises, that were staring spookily at him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as the jelly-like things wobbled.

"Oh, those are just for pure gastronomical pleasure," explained the shopkeeper. "If you suck on them, your tongue, lips and teeth will turn the color of the irises. They glow in the dark." _Awesome_, thought Blaise, his smirk curling into something more like a snarl. He was starting to like this place - maybe one of these days he'd slip back and buy some more; this place was almost as good as Zonko's. He'd give some of these to Millicent and tell her that they were Gummy Eyeballs from Honeydukes. She'd believe any word he says. 

Feeling rather weighed down by all the stuff he had in his arms, he decided to only buy these few things. He pulled out his large, jangly moneybag and began to count out the golden coins, when the funny-looking quill caught his eye again - as well as a vial of black powder. The tag on the quill (which he hadn't noticed before) read, "**Write the full name of any two people, any gender, with a heart between the two names. Within a month they will fall madly in love with each other! Note: You can only use this for couples where at least one of them has a spark of love for the other.**" The tag on the vial said, "**Pour a little bit of this powder on any non-living thing - corpses included - and it will come alive - for a limited amount of time - depending on the object. This vial of powder will never run out.**"

_Most interesting._

Blaise made his purchases, then walked out of the shop while the shopkeeper stood at the door bowing, with the quill and the vial of black powder also in the large bag. Turning back into High Street, he saw Draco and Pansy coming towards him, and waved.

"Hey Blaise, buddy! Where have you been? We've been looking all over for you," grinned Draco, who was sucking gleefully on a Liquorice Wand.

"Oh, me? I was checking out the new shop that was just around that corner - here, let me show you -" Blaise turned back to where the shop was, pointing -

- to nothing. There was just the long stretch of road leading off to the far distance, beyond the boundaries of Hogsmeade.

Feeling confused, Blaise spluttered as Draco and Pansy laughed, "It really was there - a couple of minutes ago! Serious!"

But the two of them only clapped him on the back and said, "Nice joke, Blaise. I bet you've been wandering around the Shrieking Shack, or something. If you don't want to tell us your secret, we're cool. Come on, let's get back, or Mcgonagall would have a fit." Chuckling, the two of them tugged Blaise back to Hogwarts. But as Blaise cast one glance back, over his shoulder, he could swear he could see a hooded, stooped figure with two rubies glinting back at him in the far distance.


	2. Quidditch and Experiments

A/N: Was a little bored so this update is fairly fast. As usual, go review:)

Blaise had forgotten all about his little package of goods after he had plonked them unceremoniously on the top of his four-poster bed. Since it was a Saturday, and it was early in the year - although homework preparing them for the end-of-year OWLS were coming in fast and furious - he and Draco had a mini Quidditch match together with the rest of the Slytherin people; Pansy sat in the stands with Millicent Bulstrode and her other cronies, cheering for no one in particular and screaming when points were scored.

Blaise had a Firebolt just like Draco, but of course Draco was the better and faster flyer. He was, of course, the Seeker of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and at present moment both boys were diving around in the air, weaving around the other players, dodging Bludgers, looking for that gold speck in the air.

Blaise flew up higher above the scene to try to see where the Snitch was; he got a bird's eye view of everything. Malcolm and Theodore were both Beaters and they were whacking the large black balls towards each other, cackling as they did so; Draco was slowly gliding in the air, peering about; someone had just scored a point and Draco's team was winning.

Suddenly, about the same time Draco did, Blaise spotted in his peripheral vision the flutter of tiny wings and something gold and glinting. He swerved around a Quaffle, bent down on his broom, and could see Draco from the corner of his eye speeding towards the Snitch as well. One of the 'cheerleaders' screamed something incoherent and Blaise reached out a hand to clamp it over -

- thin air as Draco zoomed past him, broom bristling in his wake, the Snitch caught in his gloved hand. The smile of victory was pasted all over Draco's face as he made a victory lap, once, around the Quidditch playing field; the cheerleaders cheered for him as he landed, slick blond hair plastered to the side of his face with perspiration. Blaise muttered darkly under his breath, something that sounded a lot like "over arrogant brat - it's just a Quidditch game" as he stalked away. He still didn't like the idea of Draco being better than him in everything - looks, girlfriends, Quidditch, homework (he got help from the more studious members of Slytherin with his whiny ways). Sure, Draco and him had been like brothers since preschool - their dads were colleagues as Death Eaters - but recently he found the other boy more annoying than ever. He really, really deserved a second bout of Hiccuping Potion.

His thoughts of revenge were cut short just then as Draco fell into step besides Blaise, a bright smile lighting up his face. "Great game, huh?" said Draco. Blaise responded with a dull nod, trying to plaster a fake smile to his face - which looked more like a grimace. Not really seeing Blaise, Draco continued, "Did you see that awesome dive I made? It was like whoosh then I dipped downwards and caught the Snitch - right under your nose!" He laughed, and Blaise forced out a chuckle.

Just then Pansy skipped her way towards them, latching herself on Draco's arm. Draco stuck out a tongue at Blaise, a sick look on his face, which clearly said, "Not _again._" Blaise could hardly suppress a laugh as Pansy simpered at Draco, pushing a lock of blond hair away from his face, telling him how great his Quidditch skills are. _Oh, well. The good thing about Draco being better than me is that now Pansy likes him,_ Blaise thought, a smirk curling on his face. When Pansy had a crush on him, he could hardly get her off - she attached herself onto Blaise like deadly tendrils of Devil's Snare.

The smirk still twisting his mouth, Blaise said, "I'll go up to the common room first, get ready for dinner. See ya!" He skipped up the steps, two at a time, jumping over the fifth and seventh steps because they disappeared unpredictably. Within minutes he was in the common room - which was quite empty except for a few people studying near the fire, or playing Exploding Snap. They waved at him, and he waved back with his charming smile - several of the girls swooned - and he climbed up the steps to the fifth-year's dormitory. Climbing onto his bed, he remembered the funny shop and the stuff he had bought from it.

He threw the items on the bed, then after a slight hesitation, pulled the curtains around his bed. He didn't want Draco - who slept in the bed beside him - to see these stuff. Broomstick, glove, pouch, flute, eyeballs, quill, vial - all check. He kept away the broomstick first - although he really wanted to take it out and try it now for a spin, it was going to get dark soon. The flute he kept away also; there was nobody here. Everyone else had not come up from Quidditch. He'd try one of those eyeballs later, too. There were still the other things he could tinker around with, though.

The pouch really intrigued him, although he didn't really understand how to use it. He thought hard of what he wanted... and decided that he wanted an unopened Chocolate Frog - the Quidditch game had made him really thirsty. He felt around the inside of the pouch and his hand touched the smooth wrapping of the sweet. He pulled it out.

_It really is a Chocolate Frog!_ Blaise thought with amazement. Laughing, partly from delight and partly from surprise, he ripped the packet open. The card was Nicholas Flannel, a card which he already had, but nevertheless still rare. The Chocolate Frog melted in his mouth as he thought hard, the gears in his brain working hard. If his interpretation of the usage of the pouch was true, he could steal _anything he wanted_ using this pouch. He eyed the tiny pouch rather hungrily. The drawstring opening of the pouch didn't look big enough to fit, say, a bottle of Butterbeer - the perfect thing to quench his thirst after that Chocolate Frog.

Sticking his hand into the pouch, he rummaged around its cloth depths and finally touched something that felt like glass. He grabbed the circular and smooth bottleneck and pulled out a tiny bottle of Butterbeer, which could sit on the palm of his hand easily. As Blaise watched, the bottle quickly grew into a full-sized bottle of Butterbeer, its clear fizzy liquid sloshing around. _It works! Man, this thing is cooler than cool!_

Blaise uncorked the bottle, then glugged half of it down his throat. Man, it was wonderful! He licked his lips, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve, cleaning up the few drops that had dribbled onto his chin.

He set aside the half-full bottle for the time being, putting it out of sight into his trunk. There was a 'No Food and Drinks' rule in the dorm. Besides, he's got better things to do now than to drink Butterbeer. _I want OWL answers!_ he thought with glee. The pouch, however, was empty. Blaise puzzled over the matter, then came to the conclusion: _Maybe_ Flitwick _put an _Unstealable _charm on it, or something. Oh, well. There's other stuff to do anyway, than to steal OWL answer sheets. _

Now he looked at the rest of the items with a fresh awe, wondering vaguely if they all worked. He tried on the glove, and reached out at the curtain divider that separated him from Draco's bed.

It went right through, as though the curtain were just made out of water.

"Awesome," breathed Blaise as he removed his hand from the curtain and stuck it through the wall opposite his bed instead. It went right through, as Blaise thought rather detachedly, _this wall is as thick as the length from my elbow all the way to my wrist._ His random thoughts were cut shot, however, when he heard several second-year Slytherins scream from below and realised that his gloved hand must have looked odd, protruding from the wall and flexing its fingers. He quickly pulled it out of the wall before anyone came up to investigate the matter.

Hmmm Blaise quickly removed the glove and eagerly surveyed the rest of the items. He thought hard, then tore of a scrap of parchment quickly and scrawled, "Millicent Bulstrode 3 Pansy Parkinson". He giggled as he wrote it; the thought of Millicent and Pansy together was a sickly amusing idea. He would have to wait at most a month, though, before anything would happen - if anything happened at all. Blaise doubted if either of them felt even a "spark of love for the other" - it was impossible to imagine that the two love rivals (Millicent had always eyed Draco) felt anything other than hatred for each other.

Blaise felt a slight tingle as he wrote the last letters down, for a moment a cold chill passed through his fingers, then he heard a loud chattering of voices outside. In one swift sweep, he stowed everything into his trunk and hid it away from view. Somehow he felt he didn't really want Draco to know about this. Yeah, they are great friends and all, but hey, he's allowed to keep a few secrets for himself.

The door burst open, and the rowdy laughter of the Slytherin fifth-years rang in the dormitory. Draco found Blaise lounging carelessly on his bed, idly flipping through the pages of a Transfiguration text book.

"Hey man, why'd you go up so fast? Don't tell me you're already studying for your OWLs like that Mudblood Granger," laughed Draco as he flopped down on the bed beside Blaise's. "We went to get some pumpkin juice from the kitchens - you missed out on all the fun!"

"Nah, not studying, just reading through - boring stuff, though. Hey check this out - we'll be learning how to Transfigurate animals, and this real complicated thing called an Inanimatus Conjurus Spell - damn. That spell goes something like this -" Blaise brandished his wand and drew a figure eight in the air, all the while flicking it in a complicated sort of way. To Draco it looked as if Blaise had a twitch. All he ever succeeded doing was make the pillows jerk out of their pillow covers, and both Draco and Blaise fell over in fits of laughter. The evening passed by in laughter and chatter, although Blaise was itching to have a moment to himself all alone.

A/N: Liked that? And yeah, I know Millicent x Pansy is kinda creepy - but surprises are in store!


	3. Hog's Head and Scarecrows

A/N: Hoped you all liked the last chapter; this is getting a little bit interesting! I'm sorry; I totally forgot that the fifth year was the year that they got Umbridge as Inquisitor :( Oh, and this chapter happened before the Hogsmeade trip. The next one would be back to present time.

The Boy Who Lived felt like he was just about to die. He had a ton of homework to complete - there was that dream diary from Trelawney, and Snape just had to give them an essay on the twenty uses of Silverlice in potion-making on top of the very complicated advanced version of the Sleep Charm that Flitwick insisted they did. Not to mention Binn's demands that they write an three-paged essay on the history of Brendall the famous mute banshee. Angelina Johnson, the captain of Harry's Quidditch team, had recently been turning a deaf ear to Harry's grumbling about the excessive Quidditch practice - she seemed to be driving them harder and harder, determined to prove to Slytherin that she wasn't as bad a captain as they said. To top it all off, Umbridge was making his life living hell. The painful reminder of her endless detentions was etched clearly onto the back of his hand, hurting everytime he touched it: "_I must not tell lies_".

And now Hermoine was not making things better.

Although Harry had to thank his lucky toadstools that it was just a small bunch of people, crowded around a single table in the Hog's Head, wanting Harry to teach them DADA. Not many people had turned up; Umbridge had been stalking the corridors lately, and rumor has it that she hexed Bonny Prattle (a Hufflepuff) the other day just because Bonny had been declaring hotly that her loyalty to Dumbledore was still firm. The idea of forming a group against her was "not very popular", as Hermione had timidly admitted to Harry. On one hand, he was rather relieved that this business wasn't as large as he had expected; on the other he was rather disappointed that so little people had faith in him.

Hermione didn't really like The Three Broomsticks because many students were there and no doubt Umbridge would send a student from her army of Slytherins and the occasional Ravenclaw traitor to eavesdrop on whatever conversations Harry and his friends held there; Hermione thought that the Hog's Head was a rather safer choice, since no one really patronised it.

By the time they reached the Hog's Head (Harry had lingered longer than he usually would looking at a new wizarding chessboard), people were already sipping at their drinks and chatting with each other. At his entrance, all of them fell silent. The bar was dim and behind the counter were wine bottles that were covered with a thin layer of dust, accumulated with age. The only decoration in the bar was a large portrait hung on the wall opposite the door of a wrinkled, century-old wizard who drowsed quietly in a creaking, rocking chair. It was empty except for a funny looking creature with scaly skin sitting in the far corner, and the only sound was the creature's low snorting and the perpetual squeak of the bartender rubbing a glass with a dirty rag.

"Er. Hi." Harry's insides seemed to be melting. He counted, what, ten people? He mentally ticked the names off in his mind. Fred. George. Ginny. Michael Corner (who was sitting beside Ginny and looking rather disgruntled at being dragged here while also managing to look delighted at holding Ginny's hand). Neville (who looked positively terrified that they were going against Umbridge and her scary fingernails that had scratched his face the other day, leaving a twisting scar down the left side of his face). Hannah Abbot. Cho Chang (Harry's stomach did an impossible twisting somersault). Colin Creevey. There was a bloke in Slytherin colors as well, with electric blue highlights in his hair, bulging muscles and an earring in his right ear. And sitting behind the rest of the group, was a cloaked student who had enormously large ears, two large bulbous eyes and...

Ron seemed to have spotted the oddity the same time Harry did. Nudging Harry, Ron whispered, "Is that... _Dobby_?"

Harry, in turn, elbowed Hermione. "That's Dobby, isn't it?" Hermione only chuckled. She didn't need to explain, though; just at that exact same moment the funny student threw of its hood and cape, revealing an eager-looking house elf wearing sequinned ear muffs, a scarf that squeaked, pink-and-black-striped socks over his hands - and something that looked suspiciously like a bedsheet taken from one of the Gryffindor dormitories wrapped around his lithe body the way a caveman would wear it.

Dobby blinked two large, basketball-sized eyes at Harry, then, witha squeal, jumped up to hug Harry tightly around his waist, leaving his wooden stool to clatter noisily to the floor. "Harry Potter! How wonderful to see you, sir!" The house-elf cried out repeatedly in an over-enthusiastic way. All Harry's two best friends did as he tried to pry off the most unwelcome attachment was smirk; then finally, as Harry admitted defeat with an exasperated sigh, Hermione finally obliged to lure Dobby away from the almost-suffocating Harry with a pair of boxer shorts. Harry didn't have time to think about where those boxers came from (they looked suspiciously like Ron's) when something else nagged at his mind.

Something about Dobby striked Harry as odd - that is, odder than usual; as odd as house-elves go, Dobby was definitely the oddest. He racked his brains for the answer. He didn't need to think that much, though; when Dobby bestowed Hermione a beautific smile in thanks for the boxers, Harry finally realised what was weird.

"What the...?" Harry spluttered in disbelief, then choked on is own saliva. After some back-slapping and more coughing, Harry finally managed to gasp incredulously, "Dobby... are you -" he coughed and Ron slapped his back anxiously again, "- wearing _lipstick_?"

Dobby beamed.

"Yes, Harry Potter, Dobby is becoming what Miss Granger says is _"fashionable",_ sir," giggled Dobby. "This delightful lipstick is called Purple Sparkle, sir, with grape taste. Would you care to try some, sir?" Dobby licked his glossy lips in a most disturbing way, relishing the taste of the sweet fruit. He held out the stick of lipstick to Harry.

With as polte a shack of the head as he could muster while watching Dobby's freakish-looking face, he backed away and turned down Dobby. Dobby's face fell, but Harry was too preoccupied to notice; his eyes were fixed steadily on Dobby's triangular face, almost enraptured by the sight.

Apart from the purple lipstick, Dobby also had put on an outrageous dose of blush - his cheeks looked like they had been inflamed with third-degree burns. He also wore overly big fake eyelashes, and electric blue eyeshadow was smudged carelessly in two large circles around his wide brown eyes.

_Dobby looked like a clown from hell._

"What," Harry hissed at Hermione, more terrified than angry, "have you done to Dobby?"

"Who, me?" Hermione batted her eyelashes at Harry innocently. "All I did was introduce him to Lavender's fashion magazines. He wanted to know the meaning of the word "fashionable" after I complimented him so." She shrugged. "Then after that he wanted to know how the models "applied those colors to their faces", so I gave him my cosmetic set - which I never really used anyway. What?"

"Hermione." Harry whispered, so that Dobby couldn't hear him, "You just turned Dobby into a weird -" he gestaculated wildly with his hands, trying to find the right word, "- _freakshow!_"

Hermione was about to spit back a retort when someone cleared his throat, not unlike Dolores Umbridge. "_Hem, hem,_" imitated Ron, looking pointedly at the other nine people who were clustered around the table expectantly. Harry scanned the group again, as did Ron who cast a dirty look at Michael Corner, but was wise enough to hold his tongue. Harry, though, was more preoccupied with another sight.

"Hermione, why'd you invite a _Slytherin?_"

Hermione flushed a deep pink, which was quite unlike her. "Well, he's a nice guy; he's quite a good friend of mine and I just thought that you'd be fine with him." Harry didn't reply; inasmuch as he liked to think that all Slytherins were cruel, sadistic people, he trusted Hermione's judgement. Seeing the (constipated-like) look on Harry's face, Hermione changed the subject.

"Erm, Harry, I think you'll have to say something."

He flushed, his tongue unable to work its way through the words he felt he needed to speak. Finally he managed to spit out a word.

"Erm." It wasn't much. Harry forced himself to continue. "As you may know, we three here had the idea that since that foul woman Umbridge was not really teaching us DADA and just giving us crap, we kinda decided to form a group against her, like, you know, in case Voldemort decides to infiltrate Hogwarts or something like that..." he trailed off lamely.

Hermione saved the day. "Harry will be teaching us, of course, and together we will be devoted to bringing justice to Hogwarts!" Hermione sounded like a pompous politician making a speech, and although her face remained an optimistic mask of smiles, Harry saw her eyes looking upset at the way that attempt turned out. The Slytherin guy flashed her a smile, and Harry could see by the way her spirits lifted how much that smile meant to her.

"This is legal, isn't it?" Ernie Macmillan piped up. "I mean-" here Ernie thrust out his chest empathetically, clearly emphasizing the fact that he was the newly-appointed Hufflepuff prefect. "-you do know that Umbridge would not just assume that this is another study group, not with Harry in here." Ernie's head jerked unnecesarily towards the said Boy Wonder, a.k.a. Umbridge's favourite detention plaything. "We could all be suspended, or worse, expelled; and me, you and Harry may well be stripped of our prefect titles. Umbridge had already threatened to do it to Harry."

"Yes, yes, we know all about risks," interjected Ron irritably, "But its not like we would go around blurting this sort of thing to everyone, right?"

"As a matter of fact," added Hermione, "we will take some measures so that Umbridge - or anyone else for that matter - doesn't know about this meeting." She produced a clean sheet of parchment. "Put your wand tips on the parchment, please, and it means that you won't utter a word about this to anyone." With a curious glance at Hermione, Harry placed the tip of his wand on the parchment, and watched as gold sparks emitted from it, leaving the smell of singed paper in its wake but not a mark on the parchment.

The rest followed suit; though some were rather hesitant about it, like the Slytherin bloke, who scrutinised the parchment suspiciously for a full half minute, as if he were expecting it to swallow him whole, before he placed his wand tip on it reluctantly (Harry guessed that he hadn't really forgotten the mutual hatred between Slytherins and Gryffindors; he saw him giving Ron the same suspicious look). Michael Corner dawdled for a long while, and it took a glare from Ron and an encouraging smile from Ginny for him to finally oblige.

But there were those who were more than eager to do so.

Cho leaned forward, much more than she had to, so that her silky, black hair brushed against Harry. Her wandtip touched the parchment, emitting silvery-white sparks; then time seemed to stop when she smiled bewitchingly at Harry, held his gaze, then time started ticking again after Harry looked away.

Finally the deed was done and everyone looked expectantly at Hermione, after she had carefully folded the parchment into quarters and slid it into her robe pocket.

"Well, then! Our first meeting will be at the unused classroom on the second floor, past the portrait of Warlock Wemming, this Saturday at 10 at night. See you there!" Hermione waved cheerfully at the students as they filed out, murmuring, out of the dingy bar. As she passed Cho gave Harry a smile and a thumbs-up, causing Harry to blush a deep red and look anywhere but at her beautiful face.

"Well, that didn't go so bad," remarked Ron as he and Harry strolled up and down the aisles of the Owlery, looking for treats to give their own owls. Hermione had left to buy new quills with Hannah Abbot (who had, Harry heard, broke hers in a nervous breakdown while doing a particularly difficult homework). "Wonder how Hermione met that Slytherin, though? She's never mentioned him before."

"I'd wonder the same about Michael and Ginny," smiled Harry bracingly, causing Ron to scowl. He loved teasing Ron like this, especially about matters concerning Ginny. "They look quite... _compatable_ together, don't you think? Way better than Ginny and Neville." Ron winced at the mention of that particular affair; the two of them had dated after the Yule Ball last year. All Ginny would tell them of that brief episode was that it was "horrendously screwed up and Neville never said anything during a date".

"But still," Ron growled, examining a couple of Mice Meals (Pigwidgeon's favourite), "That Corner had a nerve! Holding hands with Ginny... seriously, how she gets herself into these mix-ups I'll never know... How about you and Cho, though?"

"What...? She doesn't even like me!"

"Oh, so you think," smirked Ron. "You couldn't look anywhere else but at her. And she _smiled _at you." Harry punched him in the arm. He had never felt more grateful for the scarf that he had wrapped around his face to keep out the cold winter air.

---

"Well, so what do you think about the whole idea of forming this group, hmm?" Hermione questioned Hannah as she examined a red-and-gold quill. Hannah thought about it for a moment.

"Well, if there were more people it'd be fantastic, but I think Harry will make a fine teacher. He handled the Triwizard Tournament quite well, I should think. Both Professor Moody and Professor Lupin thought rather highly of him, didn't they?"

"'Professor Moody' was an imposter," Hermione deadpanned, and Hannah's face fell.

"Oh, yeah... But still, I heard from Susan Bones - from my house - that he can perform a corporeal Patronus. I think that's awesome," said Hannah, then she added quietly, "Not a lot of people believe him, though, do they? My cousin Sarah told me that personally she thinks Harry's a liar and a jerk. Of course, I don't believe her!" Hannah said hurriedly to pacify a seething Hermoine.

"Well, I just hope that we'll get through this year in one piece," sighed Hermione as they both approached the counter to purchase their quills and bottles of ink. "With OWLs... and Umbridge... and You-Know-Who... its really dfficult trying to keep track of everything, y'know?"

They parted ways at the T-junction down the road, Hannah to the Three Broomsticks to meet some friends, Hermione to the Owlery to find Ron and Harry.

Hermione turned towards a tall, many-windowed building which periodically had owls soaring in and out of it. Perched on top of a large sign that announced "The Hogsmeade Owlery" in large bold letters, was a painted tawny owl that hooted every few minutes. Avoiding the owl droppings that dotted the pavement around the Owlery, Hermione stepped inside, smiling.

It wasn't the spacious, noisy place that Hermione anticipated. Oh, no, far from it.

"What... is this place?" Hermione breathed. Her first thought was to get out of there and get help, but curiosity overtook her common sense and she scanned the room.

It seemed devoid of any other living form, although the place was far from empty. There was hardly any walking space, as far as she could see (and she couldn't see much; the room was only lit by a dim orange light hovering magically in the air) the floor was strewn with junk and labelled boxes. At the opposite end of the room, there was a long wooden counter; a cashier and a vase of flowers took up most of the space on it. Behind the counter was a door with a brass skull door-knocker.

Hermione was about to reach the door when a voice said behind her, "Oh, no, dear, you'd better not step foot in there." Hermione whirled around. The voice, apparently, came from a scarecrow propped up against the wall wearing denim three-quarter shorts and a vest over a loose-fitting brown shirt. Even as Hermione watched, the scarecrow morphed into a witch. Straw turned to brown wrinkled skin, fishhook turned to long, sharp nose, buttons turned to two narrow murky-blue eyes, strink turned to cascading waterfall of wavy shoulder-length gray hair.

"Hermione Granger. I was expecting you," greeted the witch happily.

"How'd you - that scarecrow - my name?!"

A/N: Hoped you all enjoyed that little cliffy there - it isn't much, I know, but please REVIEW:) And, yes, Harry's a prefect. :)


	4. Letters and Memories

A/N: We'll leave Hermione and her little expedition for the time being ;) Meanwhile Millicent has got some sucking up to do! Oh, and this chapter starts on Sunday - day after Hogsmeade.

Millicent Bulstrode skirted her chair closer to Draco. Draco skirted his chair closer to Pansy.

Wrong move.

Pansy simpered, "Oh, Drakie-poo, I see a bruise! Did you fall during Quidditch?" She pressed a hand, hard, on a blue-and-black spot on Draco's cheek, causing it to burn. Draco yelped.

"Don't touch that! That idiot Weasley punched me there!"

"Oh, poor you, Drakesie-pie. I bet it'll be all better if I kiss it," cooed Millicent, determined to outshine Pansy. She pecked - _more like bit_, Draco thought - the bruise, making Draco flush with embarrassment: a group of second-years were sniggering at Draco Malfoy, the renowned Slytherin Seeker, getting bullied by two ugly girls.

Millicent beamed, obviously mistaking Draco's blush as an effect of a thumping heart and devoted love. Pansy snarled, then turned on Draco with a sweet smile (more like a hungry grin, Draco thought).

"Drakieling, honey, let's have a little 'we' time before classes start, hm?" Hoisting him roughly up from the comfortable leather armchair, Pansy pulled him to his feet and started marching him out of the common room.

Drakie-poo / Drakesie-pie / Drakieling / Draco-Malfoy-the-most-pissed-person-in-the-world decided that _that _was the last straw.

"Pansy Parkinson, I want to complete my homework _in peace_, so would you please let go of my hand?" demanded Draco in the most dignified way possible. When Pansy did not recognize the danger signs (i.e. Draco's tight-lipped mouth turning white with rage) and continued to pout in a most disgusting fashion, Draco slapped her cheek and stalked off, leaving a stinging red mark on a startled Pansy.

His foot was almost on the steps to the boy's dormitory when Draco remembered, wheeled around and slapped Millicent too, with a satisfactory ringing sound. After doing that, he stormed into his dorm, leaving two equally shocked girls with identical palm marks on their faces.

A growling Millicent turned to face an equally-angry and hissing Pansy.

"Look, now you chased him away!" Millicent shrieked. The group of second-years scuttled off in terror.

"I? I chased him away? That's the goblin calling the centaur proud, that is," sneered Pansy.

In a flash Millicent had the front of Pansy's robes bundled in her hands. Pansy waved her delicately pedicured feet in the air, her eyes flashing with rage.

"Bulstrode! Get your filthy hands _off me!_" Pansy tried in vain to scratch Millicent with her sparkly polished fingernails, but her efforts were futile. The bigger and more muscular girl laughed jarringly, and the few last stragglers in the Slytherin common room darted fearful looks at the pair before zooming off as fast as a Niffler to a jewelry shop.

"It pays to spend your summer at the gym than at the spa, pug face," smirked Millicent. "If you _ever _get near my Draco you'll -"

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

Millicent's limbs snapped to her side and she fell down on her back, stiff as a plank.

"You will _not _touch, speak to or even stand in the presence of _my _Draksie-pea, you got that? Or I'll hex you until you're nothing more than dung sprouting horns. And _that _would be an improvement, let me tell you," whispered Pansy harshly into Millicent's frozen ear, then added, in a high-pitched girly voice, "Toodles, my dear Millicent!" Pansy stood up and wiggled her fingers in something that might have been a decent wave. She stowed her wand into the inside pocket of her robes, and left Millicent Bulstrode Petrified on the carpet beside the fire.

--

When Blaise had found Millicent lying Petrified on the floor in the empty common room, he demanded an explanation - after reversing the spell, of course. Something about Millicent's expression told Blaise that this had either got something to do with Pansy, Draco, or both.

"Go," said Blaise shortly.

Millicent needed no more prompting. "That Pansy slut!" she burst out, tears stinging her eyes. Blaise raised an eyebrow, his suspicions confirmed. "She goes parading around with her new Prada toes and tailor-made dress robes, thinking she's _so _high and mighty, sucking up to _MY _Draksie. I just want to do something -" here Millicent slammed a white-knuckled fist forcefully into her palm, causing Blaise to jump - "to hurt her and make her get off her high Hippogriff."

"How about this proposal, Milli," said Blaise serenely, leaning back in his chair. "Milli" looked surprised at the use of this intimate pet name. "Why don't you strike up a truce with Pansy? Violence isn't going to solve matters."

"A truce? What kind?"

"Oh, I don't know. Be creative! Maybe every even week you have Draco, and every odd week Pansy will have him." Pansy had given Millicent a lot to think about, he could tell, by the way her eyes shone with enlightenment. "Milli, how about this. You'll try the truce for a week, and then if it isn't working, I'll talk to Draco. Deal?"

The light in Millicent's eyes dimmed to a wary look. She threw Blaise a sideways glance. "Deal, but... Why are you helping me?"

"Well, because I like you, Milli, and not that pug," replied Blaise lightly - an outrageous lie, but Millicent needn't know that.

---

Harry and Ron had yet to get out of Hermione where she disappeared to during the Hogsmeade trip and what she did, and all they had gotten out of her was an irritable "It's not your business to know. Now, have you practiced your Silencing Charms yet?"

So this, naturally, made Ron fume; he thought she was dating a guy. Hermione only helped fuel his suspicions by telling him (when he jumped her and asked who she told about this mysterious adventure) that she had "only told Viktor and Hannah, and you are being very immature about this, Ron!"

"I'd bet my broomstick she was going out with someone. A someone named Viktor Krum, definitely." They were tramping across the muddy field to Greenhouse Three for their double Herbology with Hufflepuff, and Ron was expounding on his recent favorite topic. Hermione and Hannah were further up in front, deeply engrossed in discussion.

Harry rolled his eyes; he had heard this complaint a million times. "Ron, grow _up_. Hermione's said that she and Viktor are nothing more or less than really good friends. And even if they _were _having a date, Viktor's a world-famous Quidditch player, Ron. Where could he go with Hermione without attracting gaggles of fans and paparazzi? I bet even at Durmstrang they stalk him all the time. If they _did _have a date, which I am highly doubting, the whole school should've heard of it by now."

"They could go to the Shrieking Shack, it's deserted…" Ron suggested weakly.

Harry threw his hands up into the air, exasperated.

"Well," argued Ron, changing tack, "If she wasn't having a secret date, what else could be so secretive? We've been sharing secrets with her for years."

"Ron, if Hermione's keeping something from us, she may have a good reason to do so." Harry held open the door to Greenhouse Three for Ron.

"So you say," muttered Ron, and then ignored Harry to listen to Professor Sprout talk about Underwater Cacti.

---

_Dear Viktor, _

_Congratulations! I read in the _Daily Prophet _that your team won that recent game against the Chudley Canons spectacularly. And yes, I've finished reading that awesome book, "_Hexes for the Hooked_", you sent me; it's the best read anyone had ever given me for months – Harry had undoubtedly good taste in books but he thinks I like to read thick tomes with microscopic words. Ron's worse; he gives me Chocolate Frogs and Fizzing Whizbees. But that's not really what I want to tell you; I need to ask you something really important._

_During the trip to Hogsmeade yesterday, I _think_ I may have stumbled upon a Dark Arts shop. It looked a lot like how Harry described __Borgin and Burkes__ in Knockturn Alley. I entered a building that was clearly the Hogsmeade Owlery, but instead I found myself in a funny-looking shop. It was filled with stuff that I had never seen before – and that is quite unusual. I admit that the thought of the shop selling Dark Arts goods didn't really cross my mind until I had bought some goods and left the shop._

_When I re-entered the place I found that I was in the Owlery, and there was no sign of the shop having ever being there._

_Attached to my letter is a sachet of colorless powder which is supposed to make a person fall in love with the next person who touches him / her whenever he / she drinks / eats the powder. I've tried casting a lot of Jinx __Revealing__ and such spells on it but apparently it's just some harmless powder – quite useless really; anyone can buy a Love Potion anywhere, though at a decidedly more expensive price. I got a decent-sized vial of __those__ stuff for five Galleons and three Sickles, and apparently the vial never runs out of powder._

_I also bought a number of other items:_

_A necklace that makes my body __become__ dream-like (e.g., meaning that no one can see or hear me, and I can phase though solids)._

_A hollowed gourd that absorbs negative emotions._

_A rose that, whenever I put it under my pillow when I sleep, allows me to enter other people's dreams._

_A book of Divination (frankly, I don't believe that sort of stuff, but it also came with some rather genuine-looking Dragon Scales that are supposed to predict the future)._

_A candle that's supposed to answer my questions with a person's name. (I have no idea how that works.)_

_Earrings that let me hear other people's thoughts._

_A mirror that can make duplicates of __myself__, for a period of time._

_That vial of powder._

_I know that you, being a senior student at Durmstrang, should be able to uncover this mystery. Will you help me?_

_Love,_

_Hermione Granger_

Hermione rolled up her ink-splattered sleeves, just as someone pressed something cold and metallic against the side of her head. For a moment the vivid vision of a revolver came into her mind. The Muggle-born Hermione panicked and thought frantically how they let someone with a gun enter the school.

Then a familiar voice commanded, "Freeze, and tell me where you were during the Hogsmeade trip."

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to see a mock stern-looking Ron holding his wand to her head. "I bewitched it so that it felt like a gun," explained Ron. A grinning Harry appeared beside his red-haired friend and said, "I was telling him about Muggle police officers. Seems like he'll make a pretty good one himself, hm?"

"Oh, for God's sake. Could the two of you get lost?" Hermione bellowed angrily and, snatching up the parchment, pushed the other two dumbfounded Gryffindors aside and stormed out of the common room.

Ron and Harry stared at each other, startled; neither of them had seen Hermione so angry before. "Blimey, Hermione, I didn't – hey, where're you going?"

Hermione ignored him, but the quill she had left on the table jabbed him once, hard, on the arm, drawing blood. "Ow – Hell, Harry, she's awfully mad."

---

Hermione strode up the staircase, two at a time, which led up to the Owlery Tower. She _had _been on the verge of borrowing Hedwig, but she was too furious at Harry even talk to him.

She suppressed a shudder as memories kept rushing back to her. Without warning, her mind forced onto her a flashback…

_Her school bag slung over one shoulder, eight-year old Hermione Granger pumped her short legs forward as fast as she can, her frenzied puffs of breath freezing in the wintry air, fingers curled over a sheet of paper. She stumbled across the pavement, then zoomed across the lawn, trampling her mother's favorite daffodils, and flew into the house, straight into her mother's waiting arms._

_Tall, beautiful and wise, Maria Granger was the best mother anyone could wish for. Hermione idolized her mom, and even though Maria might take one or two stern actions whenever Hermione turned mischievous, after an hour or so of sulking Hermione would forgive Maria, probably after a particularly delicious batch of chocolate chip cookies – Maria's homemade ones were the best in the universe. Although she worked long hours at the university as a Literature Professor, she always takes time off for Hermione whenever her husband had an appointment, and happily, today was one of those lucky times._

_Maria had been sitting in the living room, mulling over the newspapers with a cup of tea sitting on the coffee-table beside her. Her mother almost never drank coffee unless she needed to stay up late to mark some essays, and the smell was familiar to Hermione – Earl Gray, with a sprig of peppermint. Maria loved making her own concoctions of tea and this was her favorite. It was also Hermione's favorite – Hermione had started drinking tea since the year before._

_Hermione brandished the paper with a triumphant air._

_"Oh, my goodness!__ Mione darling, you won the Inter-School Math Olympiad? I guess all that studying and hard work paid off! Wonderful!" Maria pressed a kiss against Hermione's forehead and she could smell her mother's scent – lavender perfume and chocolate chip cookies…_

_"Well, now, our brilliant girl should have a little reward, hm? How about chicken? I'll prepare it and we can share it with your daddy tonight!"_

_Hermione's eyes shone with anticipation and she nodded her head excitedly. They were going to the nearest grocery shop to buy the frozen chicken, and that would mean __she__ being able to wheedle Maria into buying more toffees. But even if there were no toffees, Maria's chicken – like the chocolate chip cookies – were the best in the universe._

_They made their way down to the neighborhood grocery store to buy the chicken._

_Then everything started playing like a crime movie, the moment they entered the shop._

_Only, _only, _this wasn't a movie – and Maria Granger was the victim._

_Unlike she had seen in movies, the criminal was not wearing totally black with a mask on his face; he was wearing a plain brown shirt and gray pants. He had brown skin and his eyes were almond-shaped and a shade of murky gray, and perhaps, thought Hermione wildly, if he smiled his face will light up and he'll look just like any other person – _

_He could have been someone's son, someone's brother – or someone's father._

_But he was obviously new to the trade and he had black bags under his eyes, which looked sallow and crazy. His hands were bony, fingers twitching and spinning the black revolver that he held almost at a distance away from himself, as though almost afraid that it had a contagious disease that could be passed to him. There was a long Chinese dragon tattoo on his arm, perhaps to command terror. _

_"This – this is a stickup!" If the situation wasn't so real this man could have been a stand-up comedian. "Give me all your money or I'll…" the man looked around and in a flash he had grabbed Maria and had the gun pointed at her head. "I'll shoot this woman."_

_Perhaps the cashier had been in a rather pompous mood that day, or he had just been rather snappy. At any rate, he answered, "I'm calling the police, and you'd better put that gun down."_

_The shot rang in the air and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air. Hermione screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed…_

The present Hermione Granger forced her hands to stop trembling and fought back the sobs. The man had begged the police and said he had needed the money for his dying wife; he hadn't wanted to murder anyone but the stress had overtaken him and he just… did what he did. Hermione never knew what sentence he received, but she didn't care. In a daze, she gave her witness statement over and over again to the police. _How could they be so cold, so detached about the whole thing? They don't really care about how I just lost my mom. All they care is my statement, that bloody statement… _At age eight Hermione had demanded that the police, the all-powerful policemen that had overcome every villain in shows, revive her mother. She couldn't be dead. She couldn't be dead. She couldn't be dead…

After that she immersed herself in work – especially the calming logic of Mathematics, how every question had a solution, how everything could be worked out with patience and common sense. She also believed that if she worked hard enough her mom would come back. It was crazy thinking, but Hermione didn't really care.

Hard work and studying soon became part of her daily routine. She was so engrossed in it she almost – _almost _forgot what the reason for it was. By the time she entered Hogwarts she had laid the past behind and moved on.

She even found Harry's life to be better than hers. Although both his parents had died, he had never known them and therefore didn't feel the loss as heavily as she did. True, he lived with horrid guardians, but at least he didn't have to deal with the pain, the grief, the memories.

And somehow into all these Tristan came in… Hermione pushed back the memories again and found that she had reached the top of the Owlery. Somehow, her legs had pushed her forward without her knowing.

She gazed blankly at the letter in her hand, remembered what she was doing and tied the scroll to a brown-speckled white owl, told it to send it to Durmstrang and pushed it out of the window to set it on its journey.

Her head ached but she resisted the temptation to lie down on the soft hay there, and made her way back to the Gryffindor common room. The presence of so many owls hooting and flapping did not make her feel that lonely, but when she returned to an empty common room – neither Ron nor Harry bothered to stay up for her – she sighed and the loneliness returned again.


	5. Baths and Ladders

**A/N: Aw. Hermoine's life is rather sad. Anyway, here's the next chapter – read and review!**

Millicent had planned every step very carefully, but even so, she wasn't taking any chances. That was why she had taken food from the kitchens, to appease Pansy just in case she didn't agree. Although Millicent rather entertained the idea of throwing custard creams at Pansy's pug face, she tried to restrain any thought of doing so, as that would only aggravate the situation – at least, that was what Blaise said.

_Don't aggravate the situation._

That particular rule was becoming rather easy to ignore. From how this truce thing was going, Millicent was beginning to think that slapping a piping hot chicken pie against Pansy's blush-coated cheeks would really be an improvement.

"Come _on_, Parkinson, think about it!" Millicent insisted in a high-pitched and falsely cheery voice.

"Think about a proposal by someone who _ambushed _me just after I finished my _bath?_" shrieked Pansy. It was known to the whole Hogwarts student body that baths (once before breakfast, at exactly 7:45 a.m. and not a minute early or late, even if she had to run to the bathroom in her night gown, and once before bed, at exactly 9:15 p.m. and not a minute early or late, even if she had to run out of detention) were of utmost importance to her, and anyone that disturbs the hour-long routine would suffer The Wrath of Pansy. It was a painful, daily and sacred routine (so Pansy describes it to her fellow-wannabe-hair-and-skin-experts) that included cleansing, toning and conditioning to get rid of the excess oil and to exfoliate skin cells that block and smother hair follicles in her scalp. She used her very own homemade shampoo using items like scarab legs and Devil's Snare nectar, and her hair condition was also made out of various dubious magical items. She shampooed it twice in a row and conditioned it once, all these done with vigorous rubs that ensured that her hair cells soaked up the vitamins. Her skin, her hands and her foot suffered similar treatments; for her skin she used extremely potent skin tonics, and for her hands and feet she used thick layers of creamy moisturizer.

The other thing about her bath was that her hair needed to be wrapped up in a werewolf-skin towel for at least ten minutes after her bath, and nothing should upset it.

And upset was what her hair became when she screamed and toppled over, after seeing a disheveled Millicent (_she_, sadly, didn't have her bath – she had been spending her last half an hour waiting for Pansy and scolding herself for underestimating Pansy Parkinson's baths) jump out right in front of her.

In short, Pansy Parkinson's bath routines were something that Millicent Bulstrode would _never_ understand, as she stated pointedly a while later.

"Well I'm _sorry _about your ruined bath," said Millicent heatedly with little sincerity, "But this is the best way we could get Draco to even _like _both of us."

"He already likes me," Pansy declared, but the flat expression behind her eyes was a clear giveaway that she was obviously lying.

Millicent rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"Draco _definitely _hates the two of us. That much is apparent. But if you hear me out, we can actually get him to like the two of us. And _that _is what you want, isn't it?"

"Well…" Pansy considered the options. To accept Millicent's words was to say that she was incompetent – too much of a wound to her ego. Still, it was true; she wasn't all that good at attracting Draco. And Millicent seemed trustworthy enough. She wouldn't pull her into a trick, would she…?

"It's a deal."

---

The third house down Seth Road has a secret. Two secrets, actually. Firstly, it cannot be seen by normal people – namely, Muggles; secondly, it housed wizards who were skilled in the Darkest Art.

There were few occupants in the house; they were called the Smiths in the Muggle world but otherwise known as the pure-blood family of Gralle. The house itself had long since fallen into disrepair, and only a few white-haired elves with sallow cheeks tended to the cooking and washing. The Smiths ran a simple boutique that was known for its ever-present and efficient salesmen, and its materials were in a class all of their own. The Smiths had been heard describing gloves made out of "Thestral skin", obviously some sort of special name of an animal. There was another person living in the house, however; someone who had not stepped out of the house without an Invisibility Cloak since he was five.

Tristan Gralle / Smith never really questioned the rationale behind the funny silvery garment wrapped perpetually around his shoulders. It made him feel special, and rather like his hero Superman who had a cloak too (minus the underpants on the outside). He used it to sneak around shops undetected and to scare people with his floating head. But soon his inquisitive nature kicked in. As he grew older, his child-like curiosity took over and he started questioning his parents; he no longer found it fun to nick lollipops and instead decided that the Cloak was uncomfortable and unnecessary.

His parents, who believed strongly in telling kids the truth, told him that it was to protect him from people who might want to hurt him. This was true; the Gralle family had many secrets to hide from the world, like how they had used the Cruciatus and Imperius Curse on some nosy Aurors who decided to poke around in their affairs. Those few incidents didn't really raise much concern as the Aurors seemed all right after that – Memory Charms do have many advantages – but still, the Gralles decided that being prudent was a good idea.

The Cloak, therefore, was to prevent the Ministry from attacking the Gralles through tiny Tristan; although there were ways to see through Cloaks, it wasn't likely that anyone would cast a Human Revealing Spell in the middle of crowded London.

There was another party after the Gralles, a group of people who were far more dangerous than the Ministry – Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The Gralles were particularly afraid during his time of reign, as the head of the Gralle family – Thomas Gralle – had done what Regulus Black _attempted _to do, only with more success. Thomas had stolen Voldemort's secrets and backed out of being Voldemort's servant; instead he, a highly competent wizard, managed to escape Voldemort and death. He fled from the country, but luckily Voldemort had better things to do than to go after disloyal servants. Had Harry Potter not sent away Voldemort for good, Thomas might have been nothing more than smoldering bones by now; but thanks to the Boy Who Lived, he just may have another shot at living.

So when Tristan was five years old, Thomas was dealing very well in his new life, that much was clear. The wizarding community was recovering from Voldemort's reign, people were letting their guard down, and Thomas made strictly legal business deals. Most of the time, anyway.

All these, however, were unknown to tiny Tristan; when he was nine, he found someone who actually cared about him – not in the way his parents did, who just showered him with presents and gave him little affection.

He bumped into Hermoine Granger by accident in a drugstore one day, and Hermoine had been somewhat surprised when she knocked into something that seemed like an invisible wall. She was then a rather pretty little girl, her curly shoulder-length soft brown hair framing her freckled, chubby face. Despite the deceiving aura of innocence that enveloped Hermoine, if you peer deeper into her eyes, as Tristan discovered, she had many emotions tangled up in her soul.

Although Tristan couldn't understand much of what that meant, he knew she needed a friend – and so did he.

After he introduced himself, Hermoine had been at first disbelieving, then shocked, then pleasantly surprised at his declaration that there is magic in this world. Tristan found it odd that she didn't scream nor run when he Uncloaked himself; she took it as a fact of the world, something that was as normal as day or night.

They got to know each other. Tristan had never attended public school before – he was home schooled – and he found Hermoine knowledgeable and wise but her knowledge of the Wizarding world was pathetic.

They would be sitting in Hermoine's backyard (Tristan didn't think that his parents would allow him befriending a Muggle), after Hermoine's school, and having a little chat over Oreos and milk.

"Don't tell me you've never even _heard _of Quidditch?"

"No…"

"It's the best game in the world!"

"How do you play it?"

"Well you see a team is made out of the Keepers, Chasers, Beaters and Seekers. The Keepers guard the hoops, to prevent the other team from scoring, and the Chasers score ten points each by shooting the Quaffle – a ball – through the hoops. The Beaters whack these magical balls that target the team with their clubs, and the Seeker is the most important." Tristan paused, to give a somewhat cliff-hanger effect.

"What does he do?" Hermoine asked impatiently.

"He catches this small, golden, evasive ball that flies around the Quidditch pitch. When he does, his team wins 150 points and the game ends."

"Cool," Hermoine breathed. Then her face colored.

"You'll have to _fly _on broomsticks, right?"

"Yeah, duh," replied Tristan, looking oddly at a pastel-faced Hermoine.

"I'm scared of heights," she whispered.

---

Breakfast at the Great Hall was always a great time for Draco to socialize, to mix and mingle with the different Houses (and to poke fun at Longbottom whenever he upset his goblet of pumpkin juice). Usually he would be chatting with Blaise or a person from his own little private Slytherin clique, but the occasional shy girl would come fawning over him, and he would shoo her off – he had much experience in polite, not-seeming-like-I'm-rejecting-you-but-actually-I-need-you-to-get-the-hell-out-of-here kind of shooing-offs.

However, he found that today there were two girls who refused to fall for it.

"Oh, my, Draco!" (For some weird reason they had abandoned their hideous nickname for him.) "Those robes are _so _fashionable!"

"Erm, thank you?" Draco replied nervously. (As a matter of fact, these were just ordinary robes, one of the many that he had worn since school term started.)

"And I just _adore _your shoes!"

"Right." (As another matter of fact, his sneakers were rather dirt scudded. He had been procrastinating about owling Mother for another pair recently.)

"And your _hair!_ It looks deeeelicious! What shampoo –"

Draco cut off an over-enthusiastic Pansy (who was nibbling a lock of his golden hair) with a low hiss to the two heavily made-up girls. "Look, what do you two want?"

"Nothing but a little affection, Draco," cooed Pansy.

"Just a bit of your time…" Millicent murmured, palming his chest. Draco winced at the unwanted physical contact.

"Urrghh! Get _off!_" With a wild look in his eyes, Draco bellowed, "Get _off _me! And stop putting your manicured hands everywhere!" He shoved them off his lap and stormed out of the Great Hall. An eruption of laughter followed in his wake; the entire Gryffindor table had fallen off their chairs in their fit of glee.

---

Transfiguration that day with the Slytherins was nothing short of hilarious. The first thing that McGonagall did as she swept into the class was to sniff the air with a displeased look.

"Mr. Malfoy! I would _gladly _appreciate it if you didn't stink up the classroom with your pine-scented perfume," she snapped at Draco. Not for the first time that day, the Gryffindors across the room sniggered behind their hands. It was interesting to see Malfoy's normally calm countenance turn into a colorful shade of puce.

"I – Professor – It was –" Draco spluttered. On his both sides, having persuaded Blaise and Theodore to give up their seats (they were both more than happy to do so; it was not often that you got to see a Malfoy being publicly humiliated). They both smiled warmly at McGonagall and fluttered their eye-lids innocently. Who could blame them, after all, for wanting to attract a guy's attention?

"I would advise you, Mr. Malfoy, to either bathe thoroughly or take up residence in the Owlery; I'm sure the owls would welcome you as one of the family, having their scent," the Transfiguration teacher sniffed scornfully.

The color rose in Draco's cheeks, but luckily for him, and to the disappointment of the rest of the class, Colin Creevey came banging down the door, asking for him. With a relieved sigh, Draco followed Colin out of the class, feeling the two girls' gaze still on his back; he hurried to catch up with the smaller boy and quickly shut the door behind him, finally blocking out the cackles that had been trailing him all that afternoon. Wiping the last traces of makeup from his face and hands (although there was still an unfortunate patch of hot pink on his sleeve where Pansy had signed her name with her lipstick), he fell into step with his junior.

"Who's meeting me?" he asked, clearly reverting back to the Malfoy-In-Control. Without answering, Colin pulled Draco into a broom cupboard.

"_I _am, Draco!" Colin said eagerly, pumping his hand. "I'm really sorry I pulled you out of class, but this is really, really, really, urgent. Look, I've been noticing how all the girls run to you like, you know, all excited and such."

"…Your point exactly, Creevey?" Draco asked tentatively, backing away from the over-enthusiastic Colin, almost knocking into a bundle of Cleansweeps behind him and wondering if Colin was in his right mind.

"I was wondering… you know, like… if you could teach me how exactly you do that?"

"Do what?" Draco still wasn't entirely sure whether he should Stun Colin right on the spot.

"I know, I know, you're a Slytherin and I'm a Gryffindor and you don't even _know _me, and I'm like one year younger than you and all, but could you… erm… you know, like teach me how to get a girl to like me?"

Draco considered the thought for a moment. He could make a living out of this guy. He remembered someone saying something about the Creeveys… Perhaps he heard it from his dad. Anyway it was a fact that Colin Creevey received quite a hefty allowance every week, plus _the _biggest collection of Chocolate Frog cards in his whole year. (The only card Colin didn't have yet was Jeni Haggard, who discovered the Sixteen Uses of Unicorn Spleen – something that Draco often gloated about as he had _four _copies of that particular card.)

"I'm sure we can work something out," Draco smiled slowly, "meet me behind the statue of a Basilisk near the Slytherin common room tonight, straight after dinner."

---

"Come on, Mione, you can do this," urged Tristan, looking up at Hermoine.

"Oh Tristan, you stupid, stupid idiot! Why did I even _agree _to your horrible plan –" she railed at him from where she was perched cautiously on the yellow-tiled roof of her house.

"Well, look on the bright side," said Tristan bracingly, trying his best to calm the frantic Hermoine, "at least you managed to climb up there! Even if it did mean spending almost fifteen minutes trying to get you to step on the first rung of the ladder…" He added the last part as an afterthought. Not a very encouraging afterthought.

"Oh, right, and now how am I supposed to get down??" she screamed. The ladder that she had used to get up on the roof had snapped into two just as she stepped on the last rung, and it took all of Hermoine's effort to scramble up to the roof. Now, two stories above ground level, with a helpless boy waving his arms up at her, and the broken ladder lying desolately on the grass below, it looked as if she wouldn't be coming down soon.

"I swear, Tristan Gralle, I'm gonna throttle you to death the moment I climb down from this wretched roof," huffed Hermoine the best she could while trying to not freak out at being so high up.

"You agreed to the plan, remember, and this is the fifth time you've promised to murder me since you climbed up," Tristan reminded Hermoine, perhaps in a vain bid to make her forget her bloodthirsty threats. His eyes wandered along the length of the wall absently.

Hermoine, however, was determined to make Tristan feel sorry. She ranted on. "Your _plan, _as I remember it, did _not _involve a creaky ladder that could snap in two at the merest touch, or me stranded on the rooftop with no apparent way down until my father returns," she said with as much anger as she could muster getting all the while dizzy at this height. Tristan gave a non-committal grunt. She was sure that she shouldn't have snacked on that sandwich just now; her stomach was churning and she wasn't sure whether she could keep her stomach from somersaulting.

She whipped her head around, fast, as she heard some scuffling noises behind her. Her first thought was that there were lizards scrambling around on the rooftops. Then she saw something – actually, somebody – who was, due to the current situation, more annoying than lizards.

"TRISTAN!" she screamed, partly out of anger and partly out of relief, for he was emerging from the chimney, every inch of his skin covered in black soot, grinning cheerfully.

"I thought you might need some company," he replied happily, pulling out a bag of chocolate chips and two cans of soda. "I didn't know you could climb through the chimney."

"That's what Santa does, every Christmas," commented Hermoine, ripping open the bag of chocolate chips.

"San-who?"

"Oh, you know. Santa Claus? The guy in the red suit and with the long white beard, who always comes around on Christmas Eve to climb down chimneys and give out presents?"

"Never heard of him," declared Tristan, swigging his soda. "The only person that comes to mind is Albus Dumbledore."

"Albus-who?"

"Oh, you know." Tristan cleared his throat importantly. _"Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts. Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling."_

Hermoine looked at him, startled.

He chuckled. "I took that from a Chocolate Frog card," he explained, brandishing a rather crumpled card from his pocket, "here, have a look."

Hermoine looked at the smiling face on the reverse side, then gasped as the picture of Dumbledore waved, then started pulling on his beard thoughtfully. "It's… moving!"

Tristan rolled his eyes at Hermoine's lack of wizarding knowledge, and then snatched the card back – Hermoine was on the verge of tearing it, to see if there were any secret mechanisms hidden in the thin paper card. "Well anyway, we have to get you down from this rooftop soon, before your father comes back and murders me. Come on, Hermoine, down the chimney." And he pushed the unwilling girl forwards. "Go on now, you won't fall through – there are plenty of footholds in there. Here, just put your foot in there," he coaxed Hermoine.

"What – I'm not going through a chimney! It's sooty and has lots of spiders in it."

"Oh, so you want to climb down with a ladder? I could borrow one from Mrs. Tonks down the road."

Hermoine's face paled.

"Oh, fine, you win."

**A/N: Yes, Hermoine's neighbor **_**is **_**the same Tonks we all know and love :) Hope you enjoyed that chapter. REVIEW!!! **


	6. Dragons and Quills

**A/N: School life has been hectic these days… but I still find time to give my beloved readers a bout of their regular fanfic fix :)**

Harry Potter and Ron Weasely weren't exactly the ideal spies. Still, with the Invisibility Cloak, they could sneak around undetected, pretending they were real spies.

They still weren't doing a good job of it.

"Ouch," whispered Harry fiercely as Ron stepped accidentally on his toe. "That's got to be the fifth time."

"I'm sorry," Ron whispered back absently, gazing at a figure sitting some distance from where they were hiding behind a bookshelf, and not sounding sorry at all, "I wasn't looking. Wait – where is she going?"

The figure had stood up and walked out of their line of sight. Ron pulled the Invisibility Cloak tighter around his shoulders, causing the Cloak to slip partially off Harry. To any observing eye, they would see a butt floating obscenely in mid-air. Ron crept forwards.

"Hey – Hey look, Harry, she's heading towards the Restricted Section!" An eager Ron poked Harry in the ribs. "Come on –"

There was a sudden, loud rip as the hem of Ron's robes caught on the sharp corner of a book – titled, not surprisingly, "Tales of Teeth". Madam Pince came running down the aisle, her hair flying wildly – reminding Harry briefly of Medusa – and her mouth opened, her stage whisper carrying.

"Mr. Weasely! Out, out, out!" Harry – who had ducked behind the tall shelves of musty books when he heard the swish of Madam Pince's robes around the corner, tugging his Invisibility Cloak along with him – stifled a giggle. He watched as Ron threw an accusing glance over to where he supposed Harry was standing, and got whacked by Madam Pince over the head by her wand. As soon as she had chased Ron successfully out of the library, and was out of sight - most probably scolding another unexpecting student - he followed Hermoine, who had disappeared past the swinging oak doors which led to the Restricted Section.

---

A dead-tired Millicent dragged herself into the Slytherin common room and shouted at a couple of first-years who were hogging the couch next to the fireplace. The first-years, recognizing an Unhappy Bulstrode when they saw one (warning signs being the messy mascara, smeared lipstick, frizzy hair and sharp claws itching to scratch something or someone), immediately evacuated their warm seat and took up residence in the dusty far corner. Millicent slumped into the chair, and soon Blaise came along, sitting opposite her.

"You look pretty run down today, Milli," he remarked, tapping the cap of a bottle of soda (which he had stolen from the kitchens – the elves were always more than happy to please this master who actually treated them as slaves) with his wand. A few sparks flew out of the bottle. "What happened?"

"I didn't know working with Pansy Parkinson would be this difficult," she grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and taking a swig of soda. Her tongue became blue. "She kept on insisting on doing things her way, getting the choice seat beside Draco, pulling on his sleeve before I get near him. Are you sure this truce will work?"

"Of course it will," replied Blaise, his brow furrowed. "I've got a way to make Pansy obey. You'll bet with her that if she can't kiss any three boys within the week, she's got to listen to you – and vice versa. That girl can't resist a challenge, I'm sure. And of course I'll help you win."

Blaise's mind was churning. Somehow he has to turn this thing around. His idea was not really formed yet, it sounded rather stupid (even to himself) but he was sure it could work. Well, why not?

"Sounds like a good idea to me," shrugged Millicent, draining the bottle. "Well then, I'll -"

"The talk of the devil!" Blaise half-whispered and winked. He jumped up from his seat to greet Pansy, who had just come into the common room. He pretended as if he had not been speaking to Millicent. Millicent herself hurriedly slinked off up to the dormitory, hoping to not get noticed by Pansy, trusting that Blaise would speak to Pansy himself and not bother her with anything else.

"Hello there, Pansy!" he grinned at her. She looked exactly like Millicent, dog-tired with black panda circles around her eyes. Blaise's voice dropped to a low tone, as he dragged her to the couch. "Listen, Millicent wants me to pass the message. She wants you to see her tomorrow night, at eight, in the deserted classroom on the third floor the one that has all the paintings of giants. I don't know why, but she says it has got something to do with a deal between the both of you." Blaise glanced around, once, just to emphasize the act a tad more. "Truth to be told, I think she wasn't really happy with you. Be careful."

Pansy mulled it over. She had not been following Bulstrode's terms on this particular deal revolving around Draco, it was true, but so what? She was obviously the better victor. Watching Draco get hot and bothered was normal now. She smiled silently to herself, thinking, tomorrow night, Bulstrode, you won't get any deal out of me, no! To Blaise she said, "I'll be fine, thanks." As she stood up to leave, Blaise pressed into her hand something else – a bar of chocolate.

"Here," he smiled, "That'd help. You don't look very good, so sweet dreams!" He turned and went up the stairs and disappeared behind the green curtains to the boy's dormitory.

Funny, thought Pansy, Blaise's acting really weird today. I wonder why… She shook her head from the thoughts that threatened to cloud over her mind, and thought back about the day's events. She was tired for a reason altogether different from Bulstrode's. In truth, she found herself worrying about this new feeling that had blossomed in her chest for Milli – no, Bulstrode. It was definitely absurd and more than disturbing. A voice erupted suddenly in her mind. It had a quality not unlike Luna Lovegood's – dreamy, vague, and positively alarming.

_My dear girl! What you are feeling is not just ordinary friendship. Its _love, _my darling, powerful love. Don't deny it._

A firmer voice – much more like McGonagall – tsked loudly.

_Love! _It said in a scornful voice, contempt dripping from the word. _What do _you _know about love? That it is between a bloke and a girl? Hah! In what way is _Millicent _a _guy_? Utterly, utterly absurd. Pansy Parkinson, your efforts will be better rewarded with the likes of Draco Malfoy. And even if he doesn't want you – popular as he is, there's nothing much you can do about it – there's always, oh, that cute guy from Ravenclaw. You know, the one with manga black hair and brown strips running through it, and the smoky eyes. He cornered you in the Astronomy Tower, remember? Think about it. _

Luna's voice became sterner – not much help though, seeing as its sighing, airy voice had not much substance. _Forget about that old hag's mumblings. I do say, deary, that Millicent looks better than that Ravenclaw-person. You didn't even feel an inch of love for that one, did you? Proves my point. (Besides, he's rather ugly, don't you think? He's too muscly – not squishy enough.) Now here, see, Millicent is just the right lesbian for you. Those feminine contours, that swaying hip, the long white legs, that face! I think she even fancies you. _

The McGonagall voice scoffed loudly and mock-retched. _LESBIAN? My goodness, Pansy Parkinson, since when did you lower yourself to the likes of that kind? You are brought up as a Parkinson and no less than that. There are certain rules to being a member of such a prestigious family._

Luna's voice piped up. There seemed to be soft melodious music playing as accompaniment. The soundtrack of her life. _My darling jelly, lesbians are the 'it' thing nowadays. You see them sharing hot steamy kisses at every third dungeon. Why, there's nothing obscene about it. It's a way of life! Boys are all jerks. Just imagine. _Pansy's head began filling with quite upsetting graphic images concerning Pansy, Millicent and unused clothes strewn all over the floor.

The soothing waltz suddenly broke into an angry tumult of drum beats and flat notes. _WHAT THE HELL. You can't just become a lesbian overnight!! At the very least – try giving a guy a second chance. Please. _The McGonagall voice was almost begging now for sense or reason, but Pansy's head – crazy as it might be – was set on the notion now. It was still a little confusing but there was something nagging at her heart that told her that 'Luna-voice' was the right one. To heck with the other. She had never really liked old batty women anyway.

Smiling serenely to herself – a few first-years look startled at the show of abnormal un-snobbish behavior – she glided up the stairs to the dormitory in a daze.

---

Tristan was _not _having a nice day. It was his birthday, yes, he's just received his first broom (bought from Brooms For Toddlers) but it could only fly three feet above the ground – totally impossible to act out his favourite Seeker techniques performed by Viktor Krum. And both his parents had gone out, _again; _this wasn't the first time they left him home alone during his birthday. His father went out to meet a client, his mother to a ballroom function – and the most depressing of all, Hermione had just left the country for a school tour. Its bad when your birthday is during the summer.

The only person left to play with was Knuckly, the house-elf; but even he had his own chores to complete – dishes to wash, clothes to hang, books to dust. Besides, he was nine already and Knuckly would scold him for still playing with a house-elf – a baby hobby.

Nine already, _only _nine, and he was lonely.

He didn't really think he could stand it any longer.

Creeping into his father's library – not strictly out-of-bounds, but sometimes his father beheld it with such an imperial air, you'd have thought it was a palace of gold and diamonds – he dragged a chair over the carpet and stood on it. Usually, when he visited his father's library, he wandered over to the fiction side, where the long lost poets of early wizarding battles (i.e. The Sonnet of the Battle At Taillte, a longwinded favourite of the 60's but now an artifact) can be found. However, today he decided to skip the Literature, preferring to delve into more deeper, darker oceans. There was still much he didn't know about the wizarding world, despite his bragging to Hermione (he only did that because she looked cute when she got huffy at him, although he would never admit it) and he wanted to find out more. Somehow, instinctively, he knew that he shouldn't venture into the more mysterious corners of his father's library – he felt that they contained the sort of secrets which were secrets for a reason and must never be discovered – but natural childish curiosity overcame foreboding and he skipped lightly into the library, pattering across the carpet, closing the door lightly behind him (he also felt that Knuckly shouldn't know where he was or what he was doing there).

Most of the books were long-forgotten tomes; occasionally he stumbled upon a researcher's new (and probably unpublished, given the content of the subject) thesis on, say, the uses of Boomslang skin in making Dark Potions. Most of them were written in scrawling runes, and some contained mathematical equations or long verses of poetry that seemed to be spells.

Needless to say, Tristan was fascinated.

He was still a Gralle at heart, albeit younger and less conceited; he was concerned in the makings of the Dark Arts, but not how to manipulate them; in short, he probably had the mind of a devil but the heart of an angel. Most times it was his hard that ruled, but the atmosphere in the library, accentuated by the evil spells that bound the books and the very nature of the subjects they were based on, seemed to provoke and stir the inner demon.

If Tristan had ever stopped to think about this new unconscious feeling rising in his chest, he would have probably described it as a beast (although he never was a person for imagery); tall, twisted and imposing, it purred softly as he threaded his way through the aisles of the books. Stroking this cover, and that, Tristan realized that most of the books actually responded to his touch – an almost negligible, friendly tremor felt along the spine. He discovered that most books warmed up to him immediately, but some held back; he felt a deep connection with some of the spells as he traced the runes, although he couldn't understand them.

It was a wonderful feeling.

The library was a big place but he wanted to know where the end was. Walking briskly, he strolled down the main aisle; as he did, he saw several cartons lined up against the back. Walking faster he saw that they were unopened boxes, presumably filled with books; someone had scrawled the date of distribution on them. Upon closer inspection, Tristan realized that the date was last month's – quite a discovery, seeing as none of the books here were less than two years old.

His parents had told him strictly not to let his hands wander away. Figuratively speaking. (Although he _had _seen some gruesome pictures of people Splinching before, and losing body parts more important than their hands.) He _could _open the boxes, but… he decided against it. There was always more time anyway to come back here. And he'd rather not think what was inside; the boxes looked rather threatening – from a nine year old's point of view, you'd think anything that was taped securely and labeled "URGENT" would look threatening.

Toddling away from the boxes, Tristan Gralle decided to read up on dragons first – they fascinated him – and pulled out a book titled "Sleeping Dragons Snore". Clutching it tightly to his chest, he heaved the book up and out of the library, pausing only to close and lock the doors quietly behind him, and dragged the heavy tome up to his bedroom, prepared for some interesting reading.

---

Draco had scheduled meetings with Colin Creevey after their brief talk outside the Transfiguration classroom – (most of it spent with Draco paced back and forth thinking about how he could take advantage of the little boy while Colin stared at Draco in undisguised awe) for every Friday night. This was a good thing because firstly, Monday nights were Millicent's and Pansy's "torture Draco time", when they would pounce on him and drag him off to creepy corners, whispering saccharine empty promises and pinching him all over his body. So having something scheduled, something at least more important than being bitten all over the place and waking up on Saturday morning with ten thousand hickys, was a blessing. Secondly, on Friday nights the library (or anywhere else for that matter) was relatively quiet, and everyone was either in the common rooms partying or sleeping or taking a night jaunt out in the woods or stuffing themselves with treats from the kitchens.

So that was how it came to be that Friday nights became "Draco-Colin Talk (about girls or otherwise)". They weren't yet on a first-name basis and Draco pointed out that a Gryffindor and a Slytherin don't exactly make friends with each other overnight. Colin suggested a secret handshake – just between the two of them so that the bond will not be broken - which involved wringing your hands and cracking every knuckle and tying your first and last fingers with the other person's second and third fingers while trying to clench your fingers into a fist. Most complicated.

Draco shook his head quickly and suggested instead a wink.

Colin immediately warmed up to the idea, and agreed.

That was the end of it, for Draco remembered that he was supposed to be Transfiguring his mouse into a snail and hurriedly bided Colin goodbye.

Both Draco and Creevey were thinking entirely different thoughts.

Draco: "Hm. If I can model this Creevey kid into someone like me, perhaps the girls would go after him instead. After all, he _is _cute. In a baby-kinda way. And with a little refining and good fashion sense, he could be the coolest kid in town." (He _was _desperate. Can't blame him, can we?)

Colin: "I'm totally excited! I'm only a minor and it's so totally cool to be hanging out with Draco! I cant _wait _to tell my bro this!"

---

Blaise had noticed with some curiosity that Draco went back to his seat with a funny look on his face. He leaned over Pansy and dropped him a note.

**What happened? You look kinda funny, mate. – Blaise**

**Creevey wants me to give him tuition. Funny, huh, how some Gryffindors think they're so high and mighty and yet come to **_**us **_**for help. – Draco**

**Tuition? You? HAH. What subject? – Blaise**

**LOVE. It's lame. But I've got a plan. – Draco**

Blaise didn't give a reply. He glanced thoughtfully at Draco, then dug out a piece of crumpled parchment he still kept in his bag, wrapped around a quill. On it was written the words: "Millicent Bulstrode 3 Pansy Parkinson". Dipping the quill in black ink, he scribbled below: "Draco Malfoy 3 Colin Creevey".

_Let's see how this one will turn out._

**A/N: Sorry peeps, but since the new term started, I haven't been able to write! And this update is hideously short and sucky. SORRY for the late and lousy update, but plsplspls R&R:D**


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